


Prologue: The Parselmage

by vivi1138



Series: The Parselmage [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ancient History, Don't add to Goodreads, Don't copy to another site, Family History, Getting to Know Each Other, Hogwarts Chamber of Secrets, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Panic Attacks, Parseltongue, Personal Growth, Post-War, Pre-Relationship, Prejudice Against Slytherins, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24039613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivi1138/pseuds/vivi1138
Summary: A fight between Harry and Draco activates ancient wards and traps them together in the depths of Hogwarts. Their discoveries lead to a mutual understanding and give birth to new, exciting plans for the future—plans they might just attempt to realise together.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: The Parselmage [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1734154
Comments: 22
Kudos: 206





	Prologue: The Parselmage

**Author's Note:**

> This prologue can be read as a standalone, but if you're looking for romance and don't mind smut, you'd better subscribe to the series :D 
> 
> \----------------
> 
> Thanks a lot to [Mx_Maneater](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Maneater) for being my beta!
> 
> \----------------  
>  _Disclaimer: I own nothing but the idea behind this fic. The rest belongs to J.K.Rowling._

It was sixth year all over again, Harry thought, rushing through the corridors to avoid Filch and Mrs Norris. Only this time, he was quite certain Malfoy wasn’t up to anything nefarious, but he hadn’t been at dinner, and that was just _odd_. So he ran, judged by the disapproving stares of the portraits—those left untouched or already repaired.

Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom had survived the war unscathed, but the same couldn’t be said for the boy leaning against the sink.

Harry shuddered, memories coming to the surface, guilt choking him—so much blood, and that hint of relief in Malfoy’s terrified gaze, like he’d _wanted_ to die, like Harry had done him a bloody _favour_. But these memories bled into reality when he moved closer, startling Malfoy, who turned around with a wand in his hand, eyes wide, nose and mouth bleeding.

Harry’s reflexes made him cast first. _Protego_ blocked _Expelliarmus_ , and no spell followed, yet Harry still attempted to immobilise him.

Instead of hitting Malfoy, the spell threw him violently against the sink, breaking the porcelain before an explosion of light made Harry’s grip on his wand falter. The rumble that followed, echoing through the stone walls, startled him badly. Blinded and deafened, he lost his balance as the floor undulated under his feet, and the tiles shattered into dust.

He fell.

It was a long slide through the darkness. One his body remembered all too well. He failed to cast a Cushioning Charm before crashing painfully on the rubble below but managed to roll away before Malfoy landed on him. A cascade of rocks, water, and porcelain followed. The other boy’s screams ended in a loud gasp.

There was a ringing in his ears, but as far as he could tell, he wasn’t dead. Harry assessed the situation. His shoulder hurt, but it didn’t seem too serious, and he could still feel his toes.

“ _Lumos_.” He squinted and readjusted his glasses, coughing as puffs of dust swirled around him. All was quiet now.

In the halo of light cast by his wand, the remains of the Lockhart-induced cave-in brought back memories of helplessness and betrayal that Harry fought to keep at the back of his mind. Occlumency would be useful if only he’d ever managed to learn it properly. He took a few deep breaths and rose to his feet, looking for something to focus on that would help with his scattered thoughts.

A groan reminded him of Malfoy’s presence, and wasn’t that just great? He tightened his grip on his wand.

“Er, Malfoy, you okay?” He may hate the fucking prick, but he didn’t want him dead. He silently berated himself for duelling, again—for letting his screwed-up mind take over because trauma dictated how he reacted if faced with hostility. He hadn’t wanted to fight. He’d just hoped to figure out what Malfoy was doing, sneaking around all year, but Malfoy had been _bleeding_ , for Merlin’s sake. Had the Slytherin not raised his wand, they might not be down there at all, but it was Harry’s fault.

Malfoy mumbled something that might have been “fuck off” before sitting up, shaking. The hatred on his face lasted until he looked around, assisted by a _Lumos_ of his own. “What’s this place?”

Harry shrugged, keeping an eye on him. “Somewhere I hoped I’d never see again.”

Malfoy was a wreck. The white light of their wands accentuated the gauntness of his features and made the scars on his left cheek and down his neck shine; whatever had made Malfoy so bloody smug before the war was gone, and Harry felt a twinge of sympathy for him. This tended to happen a bit too often since his trial.

“Very helpful, thanks ever so much, Potty,” he said with a sneer. “I’m not staying here. Mopsy!”

Rolling his eyes, Harry carefully moved closer, having spied blood under Malfoy’s torn trousers. Of course, the prat would call for an elf—but none came. Malfoy tried again, and Harry joined in, asking for Winky (his heart constricted painfully: his first thought had been to call Dobby). He’d gotten out thanks to Fawkes last time, so perhaps House Elves couldn’t come down here? The bird didn’t appear either.

“Malfoy,” he said, “you’re bleeding.”

With a suspicious glare, Malfoy glanced at his leg, parting the torn fabric and revealing a deep laceration running up his thigh. Harry shivered and kneeled by his side. “Let me help.”

“No! Get away!” His hands were trembling. He must have been in shock or under the effects of adrenaline if he didn’t feel that wound.

“I’m not going to hurt you, you pillock.”

“Swear it.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I swear.”

“Morgana help me, you’re such a Muggle. A vow, Potter. Swear you won’t harm me, on your magic.”

That sounded unsafe and stupid. The repressed Slytherin Harry liked to pretend wasn’t lurking in his mind was screaming at him. He had only listened to that part of himself during the summer when self-preservation was vital, and it had done its job in keeping him alive until now. Dealing with Malfoy didn’t appeal to him in the slightest, but neither was letting him bleed out in the exact spot Lockhart had stood before losing his memories. In all fairness, Malfoy wasn’t a threat any longer. He might never have been one. The Wizengamot had judged him for his part in the war, and if it weren’t for Harry, he’d be rotting in Azkaban. Harry didn’t think he deserved it. He also knew that Malfoy’s aggressivity this year was his way of protecting himself.

Still, he worded his vow carefully, swearing to attempt to stop the bleeding in the next few minutes. It was too risky to say anything else. He offered his best impression of innocence in response to Malfoy’s affronted snarl.

“What, did you think I’d say something different?”

Malfoy pointed his wand at him. “Do you even know what to do?”

“Spent enough time in the hospital wing to have some idea. Don’t blind me.” He blinked to erase the white spots from his vision.

“Afraid you’ll need even uglier glasses? I say, anything would be an improvement.”

“Shut up.”

Strangely enough, he did, and if the shuddering breath he let out was any indication, he must be in some sort of pain now. Harry’s memory of Madam Pomfrey’s most common spells kicked in, and he got to work. It helped that his adventures in the Forest of Dean were still fresh as well. A Diagnostic Charm revealed the depth of the gash, and it looked worse than it was. Harry did his best to clean the wound and numb it, and Transfigured a rock into a long (and slightly rigid) bandage, wrapping it around Malfoy’s thigh despite his protests (Malfoy seemed very reluctant to show his bare leg. Coming from such a poncy little prince, Harry wasn’t surprised).

“So, the Saviour can’t even seal a cut properly.”

“I’m so sorry that my healing mastery isn’t up to par. If you want a scar, ask me again.”

“No thanks, you’ve left enough of them on me.” Malfoy tilted his chin up, nose in the air. “You didn’t answer me earlier.”

“Yeah, I tend not to listen to you—isn’t that shocking?” Harry stood up and looked at the pipe above them. It was too high to reach in any way, and even if he somehow trusted Malfoy to levitate him, there was nothing to grip; he would just fall again. “There might be another way out. Let’s go.” _And hope the Basilisk didn’t have babies_.

“Go where? Potter—”

Harry was now close enough to the entrance to see the snakes, and Malfoy noticed them immediately. He made a strangled noise. “Don’t tell me this is what I think it is.”

“Can’t tell you that.” He frowned, then hissed at the door, making Malfoy flinch and engaging the mechanism that clanked ominously in the darkness. He’d thought that the Horcrux was what had given him the ability to speak to snakes until an adder spent fifteen minutes complaining about gnomes when Harry stayed at the Burrow during the summer. Hermione had been so excited, but Harry hadn’t seen what the big deal was.

The door opened, and the torches on the other side came to life. Harry stood, frozen, staring at the corpse of the gigantic snake at the back of the room. It should be in a severe state of decay, but it looked the same as the day it had died.

“What the _fuck_ is that?”

Harry shook his head. His throat was dry, and his hands sweaty. Malfoy took a step forward, limping, and turned to look at him. “That’s the Chamber of Secrets. That’s a—that story was real?”

“Did you think Dumbledore gave us so many points to spite you?”

“Yes.”

A retort stung his tongue but didn’t make it out of his mouth. It was true that the Headmaster had been somewhat biased. Points shouldn’t have been granted for activities that had nothing to do with school or were against the rules. Harry had to agree with his inner Slytherin there; it was great to win the House Cup, but quite unfair. That traitorous part of his mind showed him the Feast in first year and the disbelief from the Slytherins when the Cup was stolen from them. Uneasy, he banished that thought and let out a sigh. “Okay. Welcome to the Chamber, and yes, that’s Slytherin’s Basilisk. Though I don’t know why it looks like that.”

Malfoy sniffed.“Ambient Stasis Charm. The elves use them in the kitchens.”

Oh, yes, that made sense. Harry saw the moment Malfoy’s expression went from disgust to awe, quickly hidden under a mask of indifference. He understood the interest. If a room built by Godric Gryffindor were found, Harry would be excited too. Not Hermione-levels of excitement, but still. He followed Malfoy into the spacious room, glancing at the statues standing in the murky water and thanking Hogwarts for keeping the smell tolerable. He didn’t walk with Malfoy towards the creature, however. No thanks. Instead, he counted the tunnels. It might be wise to set some markers before and during their exploration if they didn’t want to get lost. Who knew if they’d ever find their way back otherwise?

When Malfoy summoned a stone from the other room and turned it into a wonky three-legged stool, then sat near the corpse, Harry clenched his fists. “What are you doing?”

“I am not keen on traipsing through the unknown with the Golden Boy, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll wait here.”

Harry crossed his arms and mentioned the possibility of baby Basilisks. He was quite sure there were none unless another snake was around, but Malfoy’s fright was entertaining. Just for good measure, he added: “The nest is just behind you. In the statue’s mouth.”

That did it. Malfoy jumped to his feet and ran towards Harry like his arse was on fire, eyes wide. He schooled his expression when he stopped, regaining his dignity—and it was a struggle not to snort. What an idiot.

“Do you know a spell, so we don’t get lost?” Harry asked.

“Yeees,” he drawled. It was an excellent Snape impression. “ _Hic est colubrum_.” He flicked his wand at the Basilisk, making it glow. “Then, when we need to come back, it’s _Ostende mihi colubrum_.”

“Isn’t _Point Me_ the same spell? Something like, _Point Me, Basilisk Corpse_?”

“If those tunnels split, no. _Point Me_ only shows you a vague direction. That one draws a line towards your target. It wouldn’t kill you to read a book, you know?”

That made no sense to Harry. Why were there two different spells for what was essentially the same thing? He didn’t ask, because Malfoy made him feel stupid. He wasn’t an idiot, but unlike most students—even Hermione—he’d never had the luxury of getting to study much outside of school. He could admit he had made a mistake in choosing the easy way out with Divination, but it was one less class to struggle with. Everyone else could read school books during their time off. He’d been forbidden from studying at home, and at Hogwarts, he’d often had other things on his mind—when he wasn’t being tortured by a teacher or missing valuable lessons because of a stupid Tournament. And this year? He was busy keeping himself together after having been through so much and having _died_ , thank you.

Shaking his head, Harry took a step forward, then halted and turned around. “You go ahead.”

“Scared, Potter?”

“Don’t turn your back on your enemy, and all that.”

“Why, Potty, I’m touched. What makes you think I want you behind me?”

Harry rolled his eyes, stood right by his side and grinned. “Shall we hold hands?”

Malfoy’s face lost its guard for a second; the corner of his mouth twitched as if he thought Harry was funny. Harry counted it as a victory.

They entered the first tunnel on the right. More torches, that Harry didn’t remember seeing four years ago, lit up when they got closer, revealing the length of the passageway until it curved at the end. They didn’t speak, which was for the best.

Malfoy’s limp wasn’t very noticeable, but it affected his gait enough to veer him closer to Harry with each step. He kept moving away when their arms brushed against each other, flinching like he’d been stung—it was his left arm, the one Harry had believed for so long bore the Dark Mark. He’d never actually seen it before the trial, wondering why else Malfoy would have shown his arm to Borgin in Knockturn Alley, but the tattoo had been all over the press after the final battle—and it was no Dark Mark. It was a caricature, a mockery, showing that Voldemort had branded him as a punishment, not because he considered him worthy of being his follower. A laughing skull, chains wrapped around his arm—Harry hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it for weeks.

They passed the curve of the tunnel and found a split straight ahead. Choosing to head left, they noticed carvings on the walls, most of them snakes. Harry hissed at them, asking for directions. They didn’t reply but turned their head as if indicating they were on the right track. Or sending them to their death. Malfoy hesitated, but Harry pushed him forward (and got his hand slapped in return).

“Not everyone is a reckless idiot,” Malfoy snapped.

“I promise to apologise if I get you killed.”

Again, that twitch of his lips. Harry found himself glancing at him more as the minutes went by, catching the many expressions he tried to conceal. Malfoy wasn’t good at the whole Pureblood mask that some, like Nott or Greengrass, excelled at. He was too quick to anger. But over the years, he’d always been trying to impress someone or project a particular image, only letting out his emotions if they were negative—if something pushed him over the edge. “Something” usually being Harry. The way his eyes roamed across the walls, how his lips parted slightly, the lack of scowl or sneer—it made Harry curious. What was Malfoy like behind closed doors? With his actual friends, if he had any? Goyle was more like a minion, it seemed. Maybe Parkinson? She was a harpy, but perhaps only in public.

If Malfoy had friends, why did they let him fall apart? Why wasn’t anyone with him during the war, in sixth year—where were they, now, when Malfoy was alone against the entirety of Hogwarts? He’d watched him on the map enough to see that he was almost always by himself. Perhaps he’d driven them away.

“Potter.”

He stopped staring, feeling the heat on his cheeks. Malfoy was standing in front of a door covered in tiny carvings of various magical creatures surrounding a coiled snake. Harry hissed and shuddered when the round door slid into the wall.

Torches flared to life, revealing a large room filled with sacks and barrels from floor to ceiling. It reminded him of the Room of Requirement. Directly on Harry’s left, wide shelves supported the weight of massive baskets full of fruits and vegetables, and on his right, a tower of firewood tilted precariously to the side. He gaped at the sheer volume of food and almost missed the eagerness on Malfoy’s face when the other boy rushed forward to examine a parchment nailed to a wooden beam.

Harry tried taking a peek, but his eyesight betrayed him. “Is that for the kitchen?”

Wide grey eyes stared at him. “Potter, this is—that’s History!”

“What?”

Malfoy carefully unpinned the parchment and handed it to him, but Harry quickly realised he couldn’t read any of it. “Is that—”

“Latin. Look at the dates.”

As soon as he found the first one, Iulius 992, he almost dropped the parchment. “What the hell?!”

“It’s a ledger.” Malfoy limped away, looking into the baskets. “To keep track of food. How did no one find this before?” He grabbed a parsnip. It looked nothing like the ones at the supermarket. Instead, it bore a striking resemblance to a Mandrake, all knobbly and twisted. “This is perfectly preserved food from the Founding of Hogwarts!”

Unsure of what to say, feeling both intrigued and wary, he watched as a yet unseen side of Malfoy revealed itself to him. His arch-enemy was almost bouncing with excitement, eyes alight, skin flushed. It was a surreal experience after the darkness of the war and all they’d both been through. Malfoy went from barrel to sack, from sack to basket, over and over again, revealing their contents like an archaeologist who’d just discovered a hidden city. Rye, mead, dried meat and fish, cabbage, wheat, cherries, garlic, honey, cider—and in a corner, Roman amphoras with imported wine. Malfoy grabbed an apple and bit into it, grimacing a bit. It was probably sour.

“I don’t understand,” Harry muttered. Was this a trap? Did Slytherin lure unsuspecting victims down there with the promise of food, or was this really just storage back then?

He was frustrated that the carvings on the wall hadn’t been directing them towards an exit, but at the same time, he was relieved. It was odd to feel so much weight lifting off his shoulders just because Malfoy had lost his shroud of misery. Harry had never seen him genuinely carefree, and he found himself thinking he wanted to commit that smile to memory.

He strolled, the sheer size of the place stealing his breath away. The vaulted ceiling was high and wide, so the room didn’t feel too cramped. He went around the mead barrels and joined Malfoy in front of yet another door. This one shared many similarities with the Great Hall’s, but the metal bounds weren’t iron and were shaped like snakes.

Malfoy rolled his eyes when Harry attempted to open it with his hands.

“ _Alohomora_ doesn’t work either.”

Harry snorted. “Thank you, Malfoy, you’re a lifesaver.”

Malfoy bowed to him with a hand on his chest. “I live to serve.”

Okay, so what if Malfoy was a bit funny? Honestly, he was. Harry hadn’t kept the Potter Stinks badges in his trunk because they were fancy: he’d found them hilarious. When everyone changed their behaviour around him, Malfoy was always Malfoy, a constant in Harry’s life. He was so unnervingly different this year, and Harry hadn’t realised how much it bothered him until now. Only Harry’s presence revealed the old Malfoy, who was snappish and annoying and almost the same as he’d always been.

He focused his attention on the door and hissed to open it. It creaked and obeyed, the metallic snakes curling on the wood.

On the right-hand side, stairs descended into the darkness. Straight ahead, though, were several pieces of wooden furniture, mostly chairs and benches, arranged in a semi-circle. At the centre, Harry spotted symbols carved into the stone floor. They reminded him of the runes on Hermione’s schoolbooks. A massive chandelier illuminated the windowless room, and two torches at the back framed a portrait tall enough to represent its subject’s accurate proportions. Malfoy gasped as the portrait opened his eyes and Harry stood by his side, wondering who they were about to talk to.

He felt like he already knew the answer, and wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

“Good day, Snakelings,” said the portrait, his voice pleasant and mild, his accent impossible to recognise. “May I ask what year it is? Hogwarts will fill me in on current events and laws.”

The realism of the painting stunned Harry. Not just because it had probably been painted around the Founding in a style that was pretty much never seen at the time (at least he thought it wasn’t), but because it was so well done, it looked like a photograph. It depicted a Middle-Eastern man with handsome features, dressed in a dark green tunic, a sword at his belt and a dark, unvarnished wand at his fist. He sported wavy black hair streaked with grey and striking sea-green eyes. Harry found himself blushing, to his horror. He liked girls, didn’t he? His eyes darted away from the portrait and landed on his rival, taking in his delicate features and his jawline.

_Bloody hell._

When he started paying attention to the conversation, he discovered that Malfoy and the portrait were already discussing a different topic, namely how this portrait could speak Modern English if he’d been stuck in the Chamber for so long. Then Harry saw the nameplate and sighed. Salazar Slytherin. Of course, who else could it be?

But something was bothering him. Never one to keep his mouth shut when he wasn’t in the Dursley’s presence, he stomped out his uneasiness and spoke his mind.

“Excuse me, sir, but why do you look so different from your other portrait?”

“The portrait you know of is a much older me. It was painted when I reached my eightieth year on this Earth, unfortunately imbuing itself with madness and paranoia. I have last seen this version of myself as he sealed this very Chamber, ready to leave Hogwarts behind.”

“Madness?” Both Harry and Malfoy asked at the same time. They glared at each other.

“I do not know what ailed me, Snakelings, but I know my reputation from the murmurs in the walls. While I cannot visit frames outside of the Chamber, Hogwarts speaks to me. I am afraid the stories you have heard about me are true, though they come from the ramblings of a madman.”

“You don’t believe in blood purity or hate Muggles?”

“Blood purity is nonsense—you either have magic, or you don’t. Muggles, however, are a trickier subject. Do you know where this anti-Muggle sentiment comes from, Snakeling?”

Harry bit his lip to prevent a laugh from escaping at Malfoy’s bewildered expression. “Is it the burnings? I thought they were ineffective.”

“Ineffective?! Not everyone who got caught had a wand or enough training to cast spells on the flames and escape,” Malfoy spat, narrowing his eyes. “And you know it’s still happening in other countries today!”

Dumbfounded, Harry blinked and stared at him. “But our History of Magic texts—”

“Are written by Muggle-lovers who’d rather deny the truth and dishonour the dead, than scare children.”

“He’s right, Snakeling.” Slytherin dragged a stool painted behind him and sat on it, leaning forward. “While I know next to nothing about non-magical humans today, there’s a reason for our isolation. We didn’t have the Statute of Secrecy in the tenth century, and the Church considered magic to be nonsense, condemning those who would harm others and accuse them of being magical. Unfortunately, this did little to protect small children, and it didn’t last. I wasn’t alive anymore to witness the more widespread witch hunts, but the killings were already happening when I was young, disapproved of or not. We built this castle to protect and teach all magical beings.” He smirked then and added: “That includes so-called “Half-breeds” and non-wand wielders, Little Malfoy.”

Malfoy bristled like an angry kitten, which Harry thought was a brilliant comparison. He also couldn’t help but be fascinated by Slytherin, feeling terrible about what had happened to him. How hard must it be, to see yourself losing your mind as you age, helpless, just watching from a canvas hanging on a wall? He was about to defend Muggles when he remembered the Dursleys. With the power of a crowd behind them, they would be the sort of people to burn him alive, wouldn’t they? The thought chilled him to the bones.

“Why the Chamber and the Basilisk, sir?” he asked, trying to distract himself.

“The Basilisk was a protector, supposed to be let loose on our attackers. This Chamber was built so we’d have a place to run. If there was a siege, students and staff could live here, undetected—safe. Even sealed, there was always a way to open it if one had magic, but it has been lost to time.” His gaze fell on Harry, who fidgeted. “Magical blood splattered on the entrance would trigger siege wards and force it to open. I understand that the door is now located in a privy, which was not my intent, and I also understand that one of you must have bled nearby for this to happen.”

Sneaking a glance at Malfoy’s thigh, Harry scratched the back of his head, once more ashamed of their fight in Myrtle’s bathroom. “How do we get back out?”

Slytherin crossed his arms. “You wait until the wards let you go.”

“What?!” Malfoy blanched, regaining his gauntness, eyes bulging. “I can’t! I have to go back today!”

“I’m sorry, Snakeling.”

“Don’t you understand? I _have_ to! Oh, Merlin—I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!”

Behind Harry, a chair splintered and exploded. He stepped away from Malfoy, stunned. Was that accidental magic? The other boy was pulling at his hair, and Harry could see blood seeping through the bandage.

“Malfoy—”

“No no no no no... please let me out, please let me go!” He looked around and gasped as if he couldn’t breathe.

What was happening? Harry had never seen someone that distressed. The atmosphere had shifted so dramatically, and he didn’t know what to do. But Malfoy’s wheezing breath scared him. At some point, Malfoy had started panicking, struggling to inhale any air at all.

“Snakeling, can you focus on my voice?”

Malfoy shook his head wildly. Harry let go of his wariness and took Malfoy’s fists in his hands gently. The other boy didn’t flinch. Encouraged, he moved close enough to notice very light freckles on the bridge of Malfoy’s nose.

“Listen to me, Malfoy. You can still breathe. Come on. Try it.”

He had no idea if he was doing it right, but Slytherin didn’t interrupt, so he asked Malfoy to follow along and took long, deep breaths, telling him to match them. The portrait ultimately helped by redirecting his focus to different senses, and finally, after what felt like hours, Malfoy crumbled, falling to his knees and hiding his face in his hands.

And Harry saw it. Malfoy’s left sleeve had moved just enough to reveal the black lines of his fake Mark. Fascination overtook his brain, and he attempted to push the sleeve further back, but Malfoy kicked his feet violently and shoved him—and that was when the rumble started again. Harry was yanked off the ground and stuck to a wall. On the opposite end of the room, Malfoy was struggling against invisible bonds, and in the portrait frame, Slytherin watched, unimpressed.

“Snakelings fighting each other… what happened to my school?”

Harry huffed angrily. “Stop calling me Snakeling! I’m a Gryffindor!”

“Only because that imbecilic Hat has little to no willpower. You are a Slytherin if I’ve ever seen one.”

From the other side of the room, Malfoy squeaked. “Like hell, he is!”

“You, on the other hand, are acting like a Gryffindor. It’s unseemly.”

That shut Malfoy up and Harry grinned in triumph until Slytherin started pacing in his frame and schooling them on unity, interrupting them when they tried to talk. Then, when they were sufficiently subdued, but still stuck to the walls, he looked at Malfoy and announced: “Hogwarts can remove that thing from your arm.”

Harry stilled and held his breath.

“Wha—no!” Many emotions passed on Malfoy’s face. “I—I can’t!”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“I refuse to speak of this with Potty in the room!”

The painting snapped his fingers, and Harry and Malfoy slipped off the wall gently. It reminded Harry of the spell used on him when he fell off his broom in third year. Malfoy jumped away from the wall as if it was burning him, and Harry tilted his chin up defiantly, eyeing Slytherin, his anger gone. He was revisiting Malfoy’s words in his head. He was acting like something about his Mark terrified him, which Harry found strange. Voldemort was gone—what was there to be scared of but mere memories?

“Both of you listen and listen well. If you try to attack each other again, by word or deed, you’ll end up on the wall again. Now, I want you both to take the stairs. You’ll find quarters down there. Choose one each. I’ll visit the empty canvas in there and speak to you individually. Now go.”

Malfoy limped ahead, and Harry grabbed his arm before he could help it. Grey eyes blinked slowly.

“Er, you’ll fall down the stairs.” There. That was an excellent explanation. And Malfoy was quiet and accepted his help.

The stairs spiralled down for so long that Harry worried about Malfoy’s pain. The Slytherin was shaking. What if the wound got infected? There must be some potions here, hopefully, because Harry wasn’t sure what to do with medieval healing supplies. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they found themselves in a long corridor similar to the dungeons, just with more snake statues and carvings. Two doors were already open, and Malfoy shut himself behind the first one. Harry promised himself to check on him in a few minutes and entered his own room, which looked like a museum with several large—but short—beds, lumpy mattresses and pillows, and a scribe desk. A bookshelf with rolled parchments and leather-bound books in the room intrigued him, and he felt slightly like Hermione as he examined them.

He spotted some that must have been Latin and others in unfamiliar alphabets. He wondered if Muggles learned about those languages in History lessons; having only attended Muggle school until he was eleven, he realised he’d be in trouble if he had to go back to that world permanently. What about Maths and sciences? He was good at spelling, so that was one thing, but what of those who struggled?

When he observed his surroundings more closely, he found sketches of Hogwarts, drawings of people and creatures, and he found himself immersed in the real history of the first place he’d ever called home.

#

The siege wards didn’t vanish overnight, not even after the gash in his leg had healed. Finding potions in his room had most likely saved him from blood poisoning, but there was a different pain to deal with now. Lying on his side in that oddly lumpy bed, his feet sticking out from under the covers as he was too tall to fit, Draco stared at the pale skin of his left forearm.

He felt numb. There was no other emotion in his mind right now, after the fear—the sheer panic of yesterday. He understood ancient wards, knew there was nothing to do but wait. As he thought about it, he realised it wasn’t just panic. Yesterday had brought joy, too—if only for several brief moments. The fascinating finds, meeting a sane Salazar Slytherin—but the truth he spoke of did make him uneasy.

It wasn’t like Draco had adhered to his father’s beliefs entirely. He might have when he was younger, because what child doesn’t wish to impress their parents? What child questions what they’re taught, when all their friends’ parents share the same convictions? He’d been raised believing that Muggles were inferior in every way, but he’d also been told how terrifying they truly were. When he was little, he listened to the stories of religion-driven madness, the torture, the burnings. He’d been told how Blood Traitors and Muggle-lovers would attempt to minimise the tragedy and suffering their kind had endured, and what had Draco discovered at Hogwarts? They had done exactly that.

Draco had never met a Muggle before. He’d never even _seen_ one until the Dark Lord brought them to the Manor to kill them. But he’d known what they were capable of.

Muggles weren’t inferior; he knew that. If they were, no magical being would ever have been burned at the stake. But they scared him, and he wanted to protect himself and his world. If that meant sealing wizardkind away, he thought it would be worth it. Muggleborns were a liability who made no effort to learn anything about the culture of the world they were entering.

When he’d voiced his opinion to Slytherin, who visited the small frame in his room shortly after Potter and Draco parted ways, he’d been told how throwing Squibs out of families, forcing them to join the Muggle world, was just as bad as welcoming Muggleborns and letting them leave again without taking a Vow of Secrecy. And it made him think.

Salazar was a wise man, even if Draco didn’t appreciate his every word. He was a wizard who’d been directly affected by the fear, intolerance, and cruelty of Muggles, yet still allowed Muggleborns into Hogwarts. “They’re in more danger than you, little Malfoy,” he’d said. And they were. He saw that now.

They should be taught about the wizarding world instead of being led to assume it was just a magical side of the same country they lived in. It wasn’t. Only an arbitrary piece of paper made Magical Britain _British_. Everything else made it a different nation. Wizarding traditions shouldn’t be replaced by Muggle ones to make them feel better; at the very least, they should have the opportunity to celebrate both. He wasn’t sure what the solution was, but it wasn’t his father’s, it wasn’t Dumbledore’s, and it certainly wasn’t the Dark Lord’s.

Draco had grown up hearing tales about the grandeur of that man. He’d seen old pictures of him, tall and striking, with the most attractive bearing, face, and body that made him realise he liked men (how embarrassing, to have a crush on a young Dark Lord). So, Draco went to Hogwarts believing he was worth more than most of his schoolmates, because he bore the Malfoy name—because his father was so trusted by the Dark Lord back then, and so influential in the government. He was important and untouchable—until a scruffy, speccy boy in rags turned down his offer of friendship.

Draco started bragging to hide how hurt he was. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong, though Pansy had tried to explain it to him, but Pansy was a girl, and Draco, at the time, thought she didn’t know what she was talking about.

Draco was Sorted in Slytherin, just like he knew he would be. What he hadn’t known, however, was just how hated his House was. He and his Housemates were pariahs. After the Feast, Uncle Severus had warned them.

Never go anywhere alone.

Don’t get caught.

Speak to Severus, and _only_ to Severus, if you need help.

Lay low.

And Draco failed more than a few times, but he saw first-hand why Slytherins stuck together, and ultimately, why so many of them joined the Dark Lord: they had nowhere else to go.

So, he resorted to petty insults, and because Potter riled him up so much, he targeted his friends. The Weasel’s prejudices opposed Draco’s but were just as strong, and Granger—well, she represented everything his father hated, and she genuinely annoyed Draco with her know-it-all attitude, but Draco didn’t want her dead.

What Potter never saw was how many times Gryffindors bullied Slytherins, unpunished. Fred and George Weasley made many people laugh, but they also booed children who were Sorted in Draco’s House. Draco remembered walking in on Daphne consoling a group of sobbing eleven-year-olds.

He didn’t know why he told his life story to his House Founder, except that once he’d started, it had been so liberating, he couldn’t stop himself. There was no sympathy from him, only a presence that Draco hadn’t known he needed.

He’d started crying when he spoke about Diggory’s death and the Dark Lord’s return. How he’d understood the truth about the monster his father bowed to, how he’d wanted to hold Potter because that scream had broken Draco’s heart when he’d brought back the body at the end of the Third Task. He’d told him how he’d been so scared and confused but had to suck up to Umbridge all year when all he wanted to do was spit in her face. Then, his father got arrested, and Potter’s eyes lost their shine, and Draco knew what would be waiting for him at home—and he couldn’t, wouldn’t let his feelings show, so he’d hurt Potter again and wanted to die.

Then came the Mark, the terror, the bodies. His home was turned into a torture chamber, his insane aunt sometimes coming into his room in the middle of the night to make him bleed and howl in pain, Greyback clawing at the door on the full moon, the humiliation and those endless days and endless nights and the screams and begging.

His Mark was different. The skull seemed to be laughing, and the snake was instead a chain wrapped around his forearm. He wasn’t worthy of the real Dark Mark. He was a slave to the Dark Lord and nothing more.

He had been given his mission to kill Dumbledore and repair the Vanishing Cabinet in exchange for his mother’s life and knew he was doomed to fail. And then, he’d been seen crying by Harry bloody Potter, of all people, and it made everything so much worse.

Draco had rarely shown himself in such a vulnerable state when someone could see him, yet he broke down again and sobbed his heart out when he spoke about his seventh year. The Carrows forcing children to torture their friends, the monster waiting for him each time he went home. The fear of knowing that Potter had vanished. The panic when he’d been brought to the Manor, the lie he’d told, the punishment he’d been given.

There were countless memories he wanted to forget. He told Slytherin how walking with Potter in the Chamber was the only bright spot in his life at the moment.

Then, at last, Hogwarts had removed his Mark, neutralising the spell that would have turned his organs to stone. He hadn’t thought it was possible. He’d been told attempting a removal would kill him in the most painful way possible—and he’d believed it because the Dark Lord would have found it entertaining.

It was gone, and he was alive. Draco’s fingertips gently brushed the bruised skin that would never heal properly.

On the bedside table, a wooden plate with a roll of bread and some cheese waited for him. He blinked at it, then at Salazar, who was watching him from the farthest wall.

“You must eat, child.”

Draco couldn’t stomach much, these days, but this was quite different from the opulent feast offered in the Great Hall. He sat up as slowly as possible, because his arm hurt, and took a piece of the bread.

“I apologise for the lack of food; the magic in the Chamber still thinks it’s the tenth century. I had to pull some strings so it would serve breakfast.”

“Was it uncommon?”

“Three meals a day was indeed an oddity.” The man smiled. “I’m glad to see you awake.”

The cheese was delicious, not too strong for his taste. He swallowed and thought about Potter. He’d mostly ignored Draco this year, like most people. If he knew the depth of Draco’s gratitude, he’d most likely laugh. Potter’s heroic deeds had grated on his nerves since first year. Until the Fiendfyre, Draco’s disdain for him had still been intense. Why did he have to save Draco’s life, anyway? It made it impossible to dislike him. The trial had been the final nail in the coffin.

It would have been easy to beg him for forgiveness and thank him. He’d actually planned on doing just that when he arrived at Hogwarts this year. When he’d seen the masses grovelling, praising him, weeping in admiration, though, his brain had suddenly switched tactics. He wouldn’t join these idiots. He was going to annoy Potter.

And he did. Not often, and not with nefarious purposes. It was just—Potter’s apathy and discomfort seemed to lessen when Draco pretended to be his old self. He often wondered if Potter found it reassuring. It gave people another reason to hex him in the corridors, though, which was how he’d found himself in Myrtle’s company again.

“How’s Potter?” Draco asked the portrait when that question started to overwhelm his thoughts.

Slytherin’s smile turned into a smirk. “Your legendary rival slept late. He was quite worried about you.”

“He most definitely was _not!_ ”

“If you say so.”

There was a knock at the door, and Draco instinctively brought the covers closer to his chest, even if he was wearing tenth-century underclothes which looked like a nightgown. Greyback or Bellatrix didn’t knock. He wasn’t at the Manor. The Dark Lord was gone. He was _fine_. Scarhead, with his ridiculous hair and otherworldly eyes, was about to enter his bedroom—no, bedchamber, that was how it was called.

Slytherin stole his choice away by yelling “come in,” and Potter entered, wearing the same underclothes and odd socks bunched up at his ankles.

“You’re supposed to bind those with laces,” Slytherin said.

Potter grinned. He looked well-rested, which was a good look on him and wasn’t a common occurrence. Draco wondered if the Chamber prevented nightmares. If so, he might just start living there. Permanently.

Potter stood next to the bed. “Move over; my legs are cold.”

“Excuse me?”

The idiot climbed into bed with Draco. It made no sense.

“Potter, I’ll hex you!”

“You won’t. Not if you’re hoping to get out of here.”

Ah. Siege wards. Sensing aggression, lasting longer if there was animosity within them, able to seriously injure those who might be a threat to the beings within. A fantastic system against traitors.

Alright, he could do this. He could be friendly with Potter, even if he was acting suspiciously like Pansy at the moment and invading his private space. The worst part was that he didn’t mind—and while the bed was short, it was wide enough. Just like yesterday, it was nice when Potter didn’t direct his scorn at him. Not that it happened much this year.

Also, it reminded him that Potter should have been wearing green and silver, and wasn’t that absurd? He’d have been killed in his sleep.

Slytherin rested his chin in his palm, elbow resting on something Draco couldn’t see in the painting. “Now that I have you both here, tell me: how come I can sense that you, Harry Potter, are a Parselmouth, yet you have yet to use that power?”

Draco tilted his head and finished his piece of bread. “He talks to snakes sometimes.”

“Obviously. I meant, why haven’t you dabbled in Parselmagic?”

Emerald eyes met grey, and Potter looked just as confused as Draco felt. Good.

“Let me guess, Parselmagic is no longer known. At all. Not even by families as old as yours.” Slytherin sighed. “What is wrong with this country?”

Potter fidgeted under the covers, and his feet, clad in those weird socks, brushed against Draco’s leg. “It’s not just talking to snakes?”

Salazar briefly left the frame, perhaps so he could go scream somewhere in peace, then came back with his hair slightly ruffled. “No. No, it’s not. What do you know about the Potter family? Both of you.”

“I—my father was a Pureblood. And a Chaser for Gryffindor.”

Draco waited. Then he saw the expression on Potter’s face and understood that this was all he knew. A flash of white-hot rage made a torch explode, and Hogwarts replaced it and lit the new one. He’d never really thought about it, but it was true, right? Potter was utterly alone in the world. Fuck, but that was dreadful!

He, on the other hand, had been taught Pureblood genealogy from the cradle. And Slytherin knew it, given the way he was looking at him. So, Draco took a deep breath and started talking, eyes locked on his hands.

“Your father, who was an Auror, was the only son of Euphemia Grace and Fleamont Henry Potter. They lived in their ancestral home, Potter Manor, in Wiltshire—close to Malfoy Manor, until James moved out to be with your mother. Euphemia hailed from a long line of Purebloods from Greece, who could trace their line back to the Mycenaean period.” He stopped briefly and added the date. “She was a Healer. Fleamont created an empire with haircare products. That’s where most of the Potter wealth comes from these days. Going further back, there’s your great-grandfather, Henry James Potter, a Curse-Breaker, whom you were named after. Most of your family has Greek and Middle-Eastern roots.”

He chose to look at him then. Potter’s mouth was open, his eyes wide, and he hung onto his every word. Draco’s world felt suddenly much brighter. He told him about the Potter who had married a Malfoy a long time ago, making them very distant cousins, and saw the instant that Potter equated that with still having family somewhere. He also told him that he was just as distantly related to Longbottom and Nott, and more closely to the Shafiq and Boot families, and found himself hoping Potter wouldn’t burst into tears.

“The Potters didn’t always marry Purebloods, but they did it often enough to still be highly respected by more traditional families. The name appears for the first time around the thirteenth century; your direct ancestor is Ignotus Peverell, whose daughter married the first Potter. Who was, coincidentally, a potter from Persia.” He bit his lip. “As in, pottery maker. When he was in Britain, he took a name that later became Potter.”

Scarhead grinned, making Draco’s stomach flutter.

“The Peverell family, on the other hand, is related to me,” Slytherin added, and Draco gasped. He didn’t know that! _Brand new information_ , his mind screamed.

Potter narrowed his eyes, and Draco knew just what he was thinking. Heir of Slytherin and familial link to the Dark Lord—those weren’t things Draco could make fun of.

“So, does it go even further back? What do you know?” Draco asked, and Potter stilled, waiting for an answer.

“While I cut ties with my father and would rather his name be forgotten, I understand your interest.” He tapped a finger on his chin. “My mother was a noble from Castile, who married an Egyptian wizard who was travelling to the Caliphate of Cordoba. His name meant Master of Serpents, and I changed it to Slytherin when I travelled to the Isles. There were too many languages around, and barely anyone could say my actual name properly. It was easier to forget my father after that. My mother, on the other hand, deserves to be remembered. Her name was Ildaria, and she was brave, ruthless, and quick-witted.”

Potter was drinking in everything and who could blame him? He’d been starved for any kind of information, and Slytherin was a goldmine. Draco found himself relaxing, his pain now reduced to a dull, burning sensation that he could mostly ignore. He listened to the Slytherin family history, astonished that no one knew of the link between them and the Potters. Then he saw the interest on Scarhead’s face when both he and Salazar explained how Curse-Breaking was a Peverell and Potter tradition, which meant his family usually dwelt around the Mediterranean coast or the Persian Gulf for work.

Potter was clearly overwhelmed by the time they finished talking, but there was an unmistakable determination in his frown.

“I want to learn all of it. Curse-Breaking, Parselmagic, my heritage, everything.” He blinked, then turned to face Draco. “What—what about the Malfoys? Can I learn that, too?”

Draco’s friends knew better than to ask anything of the sort, because when it came to his family? Draco’s pride always won, and he never shut up.

His family history went back quite far, but he couldn’t claim anything before the sixth century. His family came to England during the Norman invasions in the tenth century. Being nobility, they frequented both wizarding and Muggle circles, gaining influence with royalty when other wizarding families kept to themselves. His ancestor, Armand de Malfoy, was the first to establish himself in England. Draco knew about his French roots quite well, being able to name everyone on the family tree—even his many-times great-grandfather, Vulfarius, the very first of his line.

Careers, for a Malfoy man, were mostly tied to politics or law, though some of the ones who’d stayed in France were renowned winemakers and supplied Malfoy Apothecary all over Europe. Women typically stayed home and entertained guests, managing the household and raising the children—which was a very Muggle way of living for a magical family. Still, it fit their idea of nobility just fine. Thankfully for Draco, his parents always supported his dreams of working with either potions or ancient magic. If the Dark Lord hadn’t destroyed his life, perhaps he could have envisioned his future more easily. And as much as the Vanishing Cabinet brought back nightmares, it also proved that he _excelled_ at tinkering with enchantments.

When Potter didn’t make fun of him for some of the first names found on his family tree, Draco understood that, as odd as it seemed, the other boy was safe to be around. The Weasel would have laughed himself silly at the existence of a solicitor named Archambaud-Clotaire the Fifth. Alright, Draco did laugh at that one too when he was small, but it was _his_ family—he was allowed to! After all, Grandfather Abraxas had kept a journal with blackmail material that could send anyone into hysterics. In private, Malfoys were not always that composed and dull.

At some point, both Draco and Potter were laying side by side under the duvet, comfortable in each other’s presence for the first time.

It should always have been that way. If Draco hadn’t been such an arse, if he’d even dared to chance it—but his father’s disapproval was what he had feared the most, so he’d acted the part.

It had been easy too. He’d believed in the shite he’d been spouting.

Ironic, that it took the Dark Lord coming back to life for him to realise that he didn’t want any of it.

#

They’d been trapped long enough for Harry to get over his emotions and absorb everything he’d been told, but also for an odd sort of kinship to be born between him and Malfoy.

They were so different, but that made it all the more interesting. Malfoy was still prickly and haughty because that was just who he was, but he was no longer condescending or cruel. He hadn’t been in a long time, honestly. The biggest fights they’d had since third year were often when Malfoy was genuinely angry, not because he was poking him to see how long it’d take for him to break. Without him, Harry wasn’t sure he’d have appreciated his stay in the Chamber that much.

Malfoy was smart, but not a bookish kind of smart. He didn’t remind him of Hermione. Instead, he oozed knowledge because it had been drilled into him from birth, and he understood it enough to explain it to all kinds of people. Which Harry knew Hermione struggled with because while she did understand what she was reading, she didn’t always manage to summarise it in a way that Harry and Ron would comprehend. Draco also had a highly analytical mind, which he revealed was quite helpful in Arithmancy and Potions (this led to an uncomfortable conversation where Harry admitted to owning an annotated book two years ago, but Malfoy had actually looked delighted to be let in on the secret. It meant Harry hadn’t suddenly gotten omniscient!)

Malfoy also knew Latin and could read West Saxon English, which meant he could understand most of the books in these living quarters. When he found one on blood magic, he’d explained that it had many uses—not all of them being Dark—and got defensive. But Harry was oddly interested in all aspects of magic now. The word “Curse-Breaker” kept coming back to him. That required an intimate study of fields of magic that would scare many people shitless, didn’t it? And Harry didn’t enjoy studying, but he wanted to learn more. It gave him hope for the future—a different career perspective. He just wasn’t sure how to go about it without diving into books.

While he thought about the possibilities of working with curses, he also practised with Malfoy. He knew surprisingly few Defence spells and even fewer hexes and curses. Maybe something wasn’t quite up to par with the Hogwarts curriculum, because even going through a war didn’t give him much to work with.

There was no endless theory and essays with the Founder. In fact, Salazar Slytherin taught magic like Remus, and like Harry in the DA: hands-on.

Malfoy and Harry duelled against dummies, not against each other so that the wards wouldn’t intervene. The other boy’s spell repertoire was impressive, and Harry picked up each spell with little difficulty. He’d always been good at practical magic.

Slytherin taught him how to speak Parseltongue without requiring a snake in his line of sight. It was rather like learning Occlumency, but infinitely easier. Now, he just had to trick his brain into figuring out which language he was speaking. Parselmagic could be used for enchanting, warding, and general protection, because it required a Parselmouth to dismantle whatever had been cast. It made the skill invaluable. It worked on a ritualistic basis, though, so it was quite useless in combat or stressful situations. Harry could see the difficulty he would have if he needed to start chanting while dodging spells.

Malfoy had taken so many notes that he’d started swearing when his hand began to cramp. Harry had laughed, then apologised, and they’d gone back to the lesson.

Being stuck here was like having travelled back in time. The food was always from the Founding era; the clothes had belonged to people who’d been dead for a thousand years; there was no tea (to Malfoy’s horror) and no pumpkin juice. Then there was the privy, and the weird toothpaste (Freshening Charms only went so far), and the tub, and the lumpy bed, and so many things Harry’d never thought he’d ever see or use… Malfoy had had a harder time getting used to it. He must have missed his beauty routine, though Harry believed it hadn’t been a priority for him since sixth year. Not that Malfoy wasn’t attractive. With Slytherin’s nagging, he was also getting healthier.

There was that, too: Harry’s idiotic, inconvenient crush on both his arch-enemy and a portrait. He’d woken up on the third day with the realisation that he was well and truly gay, had always been, and maybe there was a tiny attraction to women somewhere, but it might just have been his brain trying to fake it. The lack of reaction to full-blooded Veela, or even to Fleur, should have been his first clue.

He’d also remembered that, as far as he knew (and when it came to Malfoy, he knew a lot), Malfoy hadn’t reacted to her either.

Did he care? Denying the panic he’d experienced that morning would be useless. He didn’t know anyone who was openly gay. What if he couldn’t find support anywhere? What if Ron and Hermione didn’t accept him? But once the panic went away, he’d felt a sense of peace he’d ever only experienced when Sirius hugged him.

Perhaps it would be alright, in the end.

He laughed about it later, because it was such a normal worry in an otherwise crazy life. And since there was nothing to do but wait until they were released, Harry managed to let go of a lot of his stress. It helped that the Chamber seemed to repel nightmares. He didn’t have flashbacks, didn’t need to avoid crowds of admirers and reporters. He missed his friends and the light of day, but not much else, truth be told, and Malfoy seemed quite content to stay here.

It was late, judging by the yawn the other boy attempted to stifle, and Harry was already in bed, wearing that undershirt that made him look a bit ridiculous. He and Malfoy were now sharing a bedchamber.

They weren’t made to host only one person. When their rivalry started to change, they just chose one bed each and didn’t leave again. Harry was now living with him and getting to know him. It was an exciting journey into Draco Malfoy’s realm, for sure. Now that he wasn’t so stressed anymore, he didn’t fly off the handle quite as much, and he could even be _sweet_. So far, the cutest thing he’d done was fall asleep while holding a book above his face and waking himself up when the book fell.

Malfoy shifted on the nearest bench, where he’d been deciphering a dusty book, and Harry suddenly found the silence stifling.

“I think I’ll travel,” he blurted, averting his gaze when Malfoy glanced at him. “After school.” He chewed on his lower lip. Bill’s stories about Egypt and Charlie’s tales of the dragon reserves in Romania and Peru had always fascinated him. “Do you have plans?”

For a brief moment, Malfoy looked like he’d just been insulted, but he huffed and murmured, “Who would hire me? I’ll take care of Mother, I guess.”

“But you’re brilliant!” Harry ducked his head when Malfoy’s eyes widened. Embarrassed, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, you’re the best in our year, right? After Hermione.”

“I’m a Death Eater, Potter.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “A lousy one. Your Mark is gone, anyway, and it wasn’t even a real one.”

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but there are few people in this world who are as forgiving as you. It may be gone, but the things I’ve done are unforgettable.”

“Okay, just pretend they didn’t happen then. I’m trying to have a conversation.”

“Tetchy, Potty.” A loud exhale, then Malfoy closed his book and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I’m good at fixing things, figuring out what’s wrong with their magic. Merlin, I repaired that damn cabinet without any training, and I was terrified the whole time, but that moment—when it worked? I wasn’t just happy because I’d succeeded in a mission. I was ecstatic because the Dark Lord always told me I was useless and incapable—but if I could do that on my own? Maybe I wasn’t worthless after all.” Malfoy’s neck was bright red. He coughed and stood up. “I need a bath. These healing salves are sticky.”

Harry let him escape, understanding the urge to be alone and perhaps cry in peace. The gash in Malfoy’s leg was gone, healed by a potent lotion found in a cupboard, but Malfoy still needed to apply it on the wound to strengthen the new skin. Harry waited for him, still surprised to feel so worried each time Malfoy seemed on the verge of crumbling, and astonished that Malfoy opened up to him, little by little. They just clicked. Here, in their bubble, far from the awed stares or the angry mob, they weren’t the Boy-Who-Lived and the Death Eater, but two teenagers scarred by war, who knew all too well what the Cruciatus felt like and how a man sounded when he died. They were Harry, who spent his life trying to fly under the radar, underperforming at school, beaten black and blue by his cousin, ignored—at best—by those who were supposed to take care of him, starved and treated like a slave. They were Draco, born and raised in the lap of luxury, adored by his parents, educated and smart, expected to always do his best, spoiled and well-fed, feeling like a failure if he didn’t perform well, his pain minimised by everyone just because he’d had a privileged upbringing and thought he had no right to feel sorry for himself. How many times had Harry heard it from Ron this year? How Malfoy didn’t have a right to look so sad and lonely, because he still had his money and family?

With a sigh, he pushed himself up and cast a Freshening Charm on the bed and the room for Malfoy’s comfort when he came back, then looked at the sleeping portrait and woke him up.

“Snakeling, what can I do for you?”

“Do you think we can do it? Me and Malfoy, just, get away from all the bullshit, live our lives the way we want to? Be free?”

Slytherin smiled, soft eyes only confirming that Harry was absolutely, completely gay. “You can do anything. I’ve seen it in the past few days. You boys have so much potential. Never doubt it.”

“Is it possible to work with curses even if I don’t know Runes or Arithmancy?”

“You have Parseltongue—like I keep telling you. Why would you need anything more? You can learn as you go.”

“I mean, I can’t get a Mastery or a diploma—” The thought of learning from dry books and scratching boring sentences on a piece of parchment revolted him. It was hard enough being back at Hogwarts after a year on the run and trying to act like going to school was important to him.

“Those sarding* regulations will be the end of me. Broaden your horizons. From what I’ve heard, you only need an academic background if you work under someone else or want to be recognised by your government. So, don’t. Work for yourself. You said you wanted to travel; I’m sure, even in the insanity that seems to be your world, that there are places where a piece of paper doesn’t matter. You must have some money, and if you don’t, earn your coin on the way. Use your skills. And by the Gods, take Draco with you.”

At the thought, a thrill went through Harry’s brain. A few days ago, the notion would have sounded idiotic, at best, but he had no idea back then that they would get on so well.

“Take me where?”

Slytherin’s amused smirk at Malfoy’s interruption made Harry groan.

“Ah, young Malfoy, I was discussing what a great pair you and young Potter would make, should you choose to join forces and roam the world together.”

Malfoy chuckled and shook his head, water dripping from his hair and down his neck, forcing Harry to look away. “We’d kill each other.” He cast a drying spell.

“Strange, you seem to get along fine so far.”

“Have you forgotten our arrival, sir?”

Still flustered, but satisfied that Malfoy’s bath had helped him feel better, Harry feigned a keen interest for a roll of parchment he couldn’t read. He listened as Slytherin spoke of the progress they’d made, how the wards had barely reacted to their occasional spats since the incident that’d gotten them both stuck to a wall. It’d been akin to bickering, without any intent to hurt each other.

“Young Potter, you may stop pretending to read that. It’s in Pictish; not even _I_ could decipher it.”

“Er, sorry.” He put the scroll back on the shelf, then shoved Malfoy to erase the grin from his (infuriating and beautiful) face. In return, Malfoy wrapped an arm around his shoulders, then tensed, before relaxing when Harry didn’t push him away. That was another thing about Malfoy: he was tactile, and to Harry’s dismay, it soothed a deep longing for touch that he’d been craving ever since he could remember. The random brush of hands had led to leaning over each other before Malfoy felt comfortable enough with brief side-hugs—once he’d understood that Harry wouldn’t punch him for it.

“As I was saying, the wards are loosening, and I believe they should let you through. When you are rested, with your bellies full, the carvings will guide you through the old evacuation route.”

Harry’s let out a shuddering breath and Malfoy tightened his hold on him before letting go. He’d gotten used to this place; returning to the surface didn’t appeal to him anymore. “Is it okay if we come back sometimes?” He felt Malfoy tense, arm pressed against Harry’s.

“Of course. Just try to use the door next time. Hogwarts will show you where it is.” Slytherin crossed his arms. “But you need to live, both of you. Face your future and become someone you can be proud of. Do it for you—not for your family, your friends, or anyone else.”

Harry searched for Malfoy’s hand and clasped it. Draco held onto him, and Harry promised himself that he wouldn’t leave him alone, crying in a bathroom, ever again. Whatever this feeling was between them, the few days spent here had already changed their lives for the better.

**Author's Note:**

> *sarding: obsolete, slang for "fucking". The portrait's language is updated by Hogwarts' magic, but it doesn't mean the "translation" is always up-to-date. 
> 
> \--------------
> 
> I don't know when I'll post the series, because quarantine is making my writing erratic, with long stretches of "nope, not writing for a month" and "Hi I just wrote 30k in 3 days".
> 
> The series will be explicit and feature travel, history, curses and Draco hating bugs :)
> 
> My tumblr: [PenguinAnimagus](https://penguinanimagus.tumblr.com/)


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